


Today is a good day

by JauntyHako



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras discovers hitherto unknown anger management issues, Grantaire is threatened, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Pre-Slash, the amis are Good Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 07:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12765966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JauntyHako/pseuds/JauntyHako
Summary: A man from from Grantaire's past makes an appearance at the café and brings up memories he's been careful to leave buried.





	Today is a good day

**Author's Note:**

> What do you do if you want to write but can't really settle on anything? Well, if you're me you fill five year old prompts from the Les Mis kinkmeme. (Link to prompt: https://lesmiskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/8522.html?thread=2622794#cmt2622794)

Enjolras looks especially angelic today. The late afternoon sun lights a halo around his golden curls and the heat of the argument has tinted his cheeks a faint pink. Grantaire takes another sip from his bottle, listens with one ear to Combeferre's undoubtedly well thought-out argument, but all he waits for is it to be Enjolras' turn again, to hear the passion that swept him along when they first met. He smiles, must look like a lovestruck fool if the expression Courfeyrac throws him is any indication, but he can't help himself, it's a good day. Enjolras is here and in a rare good mood towards him, and they're all waiting for Joly to arrive so they can celebrate his successful exams.  
As if thinking of Joly summoned him, Grantaire hears the downstairs door open and fall shut, hopes he brought something strong to drink because he plans to take Courfeyrac up on his challenge to outdrink him. He turns halfway around to throw a greeting over his shoulder and the smile falls from his face.  
The greeting becomes lodged in his throat, a bitter lump he can not swallow down, for fear the noise of his throat working will call attention to him.  
  
 _Don't make a sound, you'll disturb the customers. No one wants to listen to a sniffling brat here of all places_.  
  
He is too much aware of his surroundings, the smooth wine bottle his hand is carefully curled around, not exerting so much pressure as to shatter and make noise, Combeferre still talking, grating noise now that he must listen for other things, like the slither of leather, a soft command. He wishes Enjolras was closer, he wishes anyone was closer to him at all, but like the idiot he is he kept himself apart from the others, in the farthest corner, near the stairs the man is ascending. A few more steps and he can reach out and grab Grantaire by the neck of his shirt.  
  
 _Yanked forward, his sister stumbles, staring down at her legs and Grantaire knows she wills them to obey her, to not fall again, she dreads the punishment. She falls again and Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut.  
  
_ His eyes are trained on the man, what little he can see of him, but somehow he manages to find Courfeyrac's as well, whose lips have curled into a teasing smile. Grantaire wants to beg for help but he can't seem to get his lips to move, fears the sound of his own speech will alert the man. His throat is dry but he can't drink to wet it, can't reach out for his friend, because even the slightest movement might call attention to him. Courfeyrac turns to the others again, their eye contact breaks and Grantaire is alone again.  
  
 _His sister shields him with her body when they sleep, keeps him warm as well she can, but she is working now. When he strains his ears for the noise of footsteps marching towards his room, he thinks he can make out her voice among the others.  
  
_ The man climbs the last step, Grantaire can see him fully now, and he hasn't changed, hasn't changed at all, even his clothes are still the same, too tight because he holds himself under the delusion the women like it that way. Grantaire remembers him explaining vividly, remembers things he hasn't thought about in three years. He still hasn't seen him, but neither have his friends, who are absorbed in their conversation. It's only a matter of time, he only needs to turn his head and he'll spot Grantaire sitting in the corner, away from everyone else, helpless, weak as a kitten, his legs shaking under the table. Unforgiving summer heat scorches the air in the musain but he trembles with cold.  
  
 _The threat of the lash, whipping with a deafening noise, makes Grantaire bite his lip to suppress a pathetic whimper. He tastes copper on his tongue and sucks the blood from his lips because otherwise he'll scream.  
  
_ He tastes copper on his tongue, he can't bring himself to scream. He needs to get away but fears his legs getting tangled between table and chair, losing those precious few seconds that might give him a fighting chance. If the man grabs him it will be over, Grantaire knows. He never could fight back.  
The blood rushes in his ears, but still he can't imagine how he didn't hear the door downstairs opening again, how he missed pounding feet on the staircase as Joly comes up behind the man, his eyes falling on Grantaire and staying there, seeing what Courfeyrac hadn't, and the wide grin makes way for confusion.  
"Grantaire?" he asks and the man whips around.  
  
 _"I'll find you, ungrateful brat! I'll skin you alive when I do, mark my words! Your sister'll pay for what you done!" He keeps running.  
  
_ Tears prick at his eyes, obfuscate his vision. He blinks them away sharply, he needs to _see_ if he is to run again and finally the lock on his throat gives way.  
"Get him away from me," he pleads with Joly who doesn't understand, doesn't realise how serious this situation is, who smiles uncertainly as if Grantaire is yanking his chain, as if he'd ever joke about _this_.  
The man steps towards him and Grantaire jumps to his feet, knocks over the chair and stumbles over it and backwards. He catches himself, short of breath as he reaches for the only words his mind supplies.  
 _"Get him away from me!"  
_ His voice pierces the conversation, everyone turns, faces him bemused or exasperated, but Grantaire doesn't care how angry they'll be with him afterwards. They'll help _now_ , because they're his friends, he can rely on them, they'll help. But nobody makes a move and the man has taken another step towards him and there's nothing but the cold wall behind him, nowhere to run. His knees buckle, the tears fall freely. He thinks he can hear Combeferre's voice, demanding the man step away. He ignores him, like he did any order directed at him, keeps walking towards Grantaire, not speaking a word, but with that burning glee in his eyes. He has found him at last.  
"Please …" he whispers, scrambles along the wall, begs for help that isn't coming, none of his friends are moving, they stand and watch, watch him being taken away. The man is so close, close enough that Grantaire can make out his name embroidered on his collar, the bile rises in his throat, _le tanneur_ , a nickname, a word Grantaire doesn't want to hear, even in his own head, because he only ever hears it in the man's voice.  
The man reaches out, he grabs Grantaire by the collar.  
Afraid for his life, afraid of pain, of death, of being flayed alive, Grantaire screams.  
It's Enjolras, Enjolras of all people who bathed in fiery sunlight leaps over the table and knocks the man to the ground. He still has Grantaire by the collar and so he comes tumbling down with them. He bangs his head, something sharp digs into his back, he's on the ground long enough to watch Enjolras' fist connect with the man's jaw, righteous fury contorting his angelic features, before he's pulled up by Combeferre's large hands, up and away from the commotion. Bossuet steps between them, pulls Joly closer, building a wall between Grantaire and the man, while Enjolras beats him, rains blows on him hard and loud enough that Grantaire, his face pressed into Combeferre's shirt and shivering miserably, hears every single crack of breaking bone.  
  
  
He doesn't know how the man is made to leave, if still on his own feet or if Enjolras and Courfeyrac have to carry him through the door and throw him out on the street. Combeferre strokes his hair, mutters soothing nonsense in his ear. To his left Bossuet chatters away, forcing a smile on his face that Grantaire hangs onto every second he doesn't hide himself against Combeferre's chest. Joly holds his hand, two fingers laid loosely over his pulse. They both listen to his staccato heartbeat that gives one final jolt as the door downstairs slams shut, before it starts to slow at the command of Enjolras' voice.  
"He's gone." he shouts through the floorboards and Grantaire's panic begins to ebb away. He listens to their footsteps coming back up again, feels the short cool draft of air as Joly makes space for them, and then a warm hand on his shoulder, which can only be Enjolras' if only by how unfamiliar this kindness feels.  
"He's gone," he repeats, softly and steeped in pity. Grantaire finds he doesn't mind. He'll take pity any day if it means getting to stay safely enclosed by his friends for a little longer.  
His teeth chatter, and the gratitude he means to express turns into a pathetic whimper. Combeferre pulls him tighter into his protective embrace, hushes him, urges him to take his time.  
"Do you, uh," it is the first time Grantaire has ever heard Enjolras stutter, the first time uncertainty stole into his Apollo's voice. He hates that he put it there. "Do you want your wine?"  
Grantaire shakes his head, fears he might throw up even without cheap wine to help along, but Enjolras' earnest if fumbling attempts to calm him soothe his frayed nerves.  
The second attempt at speaking does the trick and he manages, his voice rough with unshed tears, to force out a meager: "Thank you."  
"Of course," Courfeyrac says, honey sweet as if there's no pleasure greater than to bother with Grantaire's foolish terror. He can almost believe it, if he weren't aware of how ridiculous this is. Nothing _happened_ , he's not even hurt, the man is long gone, nothing should warrant him shivering like this, still working to suppress his tears. He ought to step away, put a smile on his face, thank his friends again for helping him and let this whole mess be forgotten. None of it he does, can't do anything but take up more of their time and overstay his welcome. And now, that he tries to force himself away, he can't even keep the tears at bay, can't silence his wretched sobs or still his trembling hands fisting into Combeferre's shirt.  
"Hush, Grantaire, hush," Joly says and then something else that Grantaire doesn't hear because Enjolras chooses this moment to replace the hand on his back with his whole body, embracing him from behind, his delicate fingers finding their way around his waist, his chin resting on Grantaire's shoulder.  
The air leaves his lungs and he can't seem to pull in any more, not when Enjolras rubs slow circles over his stomach and speaks into his ear so softly it drives shivers down his spine.  
"He's gone, he won't return as long as we're here."  
He stares down through the tears at Enjolras' bruised hands, skin torn off the knuckles, ugly red and purple marks proof of his friend's affection if he ever needed one.  
"No one will ever lay a hand on you, I swear. I will kill them with my own two hands if I have to, but you'll never have cause to be afraid again."  
"You don't believe in murder," Grantaire says weakly, and how fitting that this should be the only halfway coherent thing to come out of his mouth, because arguing with Enjolras feels familiar and he desperately needs familiarity.  
"I don't believe in unjust murder," Enjolras corrects and perhaps he realises this is what Grantaire needs right now. Perhaps he needs it himself, after his own sudden rage overwhelmed him as much as it did Grantaire to witness it. It's wishful thinking, but he can't help but wonder if they are both working through some unbidden emotions right now.  
"He didn't do anything," he counters, "he just scared me."  
"Exactly."  
"If he had done more than scare you," Courfeyrac throws in. "We wouldn't have stopped at a mere beating."  
"Why did he scare you?" Joly asks and his friends go silent in the way that tell Grantaire they all want to know but nobody dared ask.  
He owes them this, he supposes, can't very well withhold the reason for his fear when they've dropped everything to carry him through it.  
Leaning against Combeferre's chest and with Enjolras' warm breath against his neck he gives a halting account of the man and the fear he drove into him.  
  
  
"Our father sold my sister and me to a brothel …"  
  
… after their mother died. He had neither the patience nor the muse to care for the two eldest children, not when he was much more interested in their youngest. They left never knowing what became of her, forced into the hands of the owner of the brothel who called himself the Tanner for reasons Grantaire never dared ask about. Before long his sister worked through the nights and the man derived sadistic pleasure making Grantaire sleep with the women he employed.  
  
"Because I never had sex before. He mocked my inexperience," he adds quickly, hears the lie as if it was spoken by another. He's never felt bad for telling it before. Courfeyrac clicks his tongue.  
"Bastard," he says and when he kisses his cheek Grantaire knows he understands.  
  
The Tanner would beat them, ridicule and humiliate them, but that wasn't what had Grantaire fearing him. He could have lived with the pain, could have endured the burning shame, told himself time and time again that others had it worse, that at least his sister and he had each other. But what he dreamed about, almost every night since he came to the brothel, were the threats, spoken without malice or wrath, but with iron certainty.  
  
"He'd threaten to skin us if we disobeyed him. He'd show us the tools he'd use …"  
Telling the story now, in the bright afternoon glow and surrounded by his friends, it sounds ridiculous. The thought of the man coming for him still makes him shiver, but he feels foolish for it. Like a child, frightened by stories.  
"I ran, three years ago. He swore he'd flay me alive once he found me. When I saw him I panicked, I know I shouldn't have, they were empty threats, just stories to scare us, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have …"  
He breaks off, realises with a start that none of his friends have left. They still crowd around him, Combeferre says his name so gently he wants to cry again, and Enjolras is still petting him.  
"If I'd known …" he says and there is a tremor to his voice of barely contained fury, the kind he normally only gets when he spits defiance against the injustice of this world. It's making him lightheaded, this passion coming on his behalf and again he wonders just why Enjolras leapt across a table to beat a man senseless for no other reason than that he'd scared Grantaire.  
"We'll keep an eye out should he return," Combeferre says.  
"He won't after the seeing to he got from us," Courfeyrac adds. He smiles and Grantaire reciprocates weakly, grins even when Bossuet lightly punches his shoulder and encourages him to wash away this dreadful business with some wine.  
"I brought a good vintage," Joly says and only now does Grantaire remember they were supposed to celebrate Joly tonight, not pity _him_ over nothing.  
"Joly …" he begins but he's shushed and a moment later he's holding a glass of wine, staring down at it as the group fans out, to pull out chairs and procure some light eating. All except for Enjolras, who still holds him and shows no sign of letting go.  
"You'll always be safe with me," he says with an intensity that seems to scare himself, because he doesn't speak of it again.  
But neither does he leave Grantaire's side.  
  
  
Joly, meanwhile, participates in his friends joking and cheering, turning the mood light and happy again. Sipping his wine he's glad he never told his friends of his first autopsy in his first year of medicine, thought then the images of a skinned prostitute may be too gruesome to hear.   
He makes a silent promise to never speak of it and returns to the conversation at hand, smiling and laughing, driving old demons away.

 

 


End file.
